


My Monday Throne

by 11dishwashers



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: M/M, News Anchor AU, psychological themes(no abuse)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-06 23:29:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12828429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/11dishwashers/pseuds/11dishwashers
Summary: And suddenly, Taeil's just holding this drunk guy up by the shoulders, there's puke all over his shoes, a Japanese number on his phone, a taxi speeding away, and he still can't figure out what went wrong.





	My Monday Throne

 

The credits were rolling, probably. One of the execs behind the camera held up this cardstock that rounded off at the edges- 'LOOK LIKE YOU'RE TALKING!!' it pleaded in writing that looked like you'd pronounce it drunk. Taeil shifted his thighs a bit on his seat and leaned over the table, doing random shit with the papers. 

"We're supposed to be talking," said Song Qian, from across the table. She looked very pretty tonight. The problem with her, was that the whole styling department(which consisted of some Instagram guru who brought in her own palettes, and three rookie wardrobe designers) had to consistently apply makeup that made her look * _ less _ * sharp. No, really. She'd stumble over her words and all the rest of it, but her eyes were huge and black and they commanded the respect of a general whenever they met yours. She put one blank piece of paper on another, and then covered it again- the director procured another slab of cardstock and waved it in Taeil's peripherals, 'TALK ABOUT THE WEATHER!!!! ANYTHING!! MOVE *eligible* MOUTH!!'. 

"I would talk about the weather," said Taeil, chancing a look at Song Qian, who smiled at him in a way that sharks would if they could close their mouths. Or maybe they'd look like her. "But I can't exactly see outside."

She laughed and tossed some hair over her shoulder, but it somehow didn't look juvenile. Her blusher was falling victim to her cheekbones. The camera wouldn't pick them up- the broadcast was over * _ so soon _ * now, hang on Taeil. "True," she said detachedly.

The camera guy put the lense cover on. "That's it," he said, he always said it too. 

Taeil stood and felt his legs go too straight, then curve a bit. He cracked his neck first to the right, then to the left, and his collar reached all the way up past his nape, it tickled against his hair. He bought the suit himself- unfitted, vaguely navy, quite fine. If a woman wore it, it'd seem like one of those busybody outfits on her, and she'd be spotted stomping past some bakery downtown with a phone trapped between her ear and her hand, buzzing away like a fly. 

It didn't look great on Taeil, either. But whatever. He kept his hair nicely trimmed and short at the back, and it was all very professional of him. A funeral attendee would be jealous of his air of compressed sadness that he carried about in his red-soled dress shoes. They were brandname- check. He'd say it to any friend that'd listen; propped up on the coffee table on a lazy sunday, a pair of glorious leather things with no fittings on the inside. 

The first thing he did, was duck around a corner without talking to anyone, and he did this every night so it was hardly an escape or a moment of luck on his behalf. His phone was thin and big, and he fumbled to unlock it like every other time. 

He liked to call the cab company. He really did. 

The broadcasting station was located just by the main road, and there'd always be new shades of indian food staining the pavement when he stepped out of its automatic doors, and a load of cars would shuttle by on their merry way; some taxis. He still liked calling the cab company, and a part of it was wishful thinking. If he called x amount of times someone would know his voice and give him a discount for being a regular or something, and he'd knock a good sixth off his cab budget, which would be enough, seeing as Taeil had a nose(and a boner, as Taeyong put it) for deals(and that guy who took his coffee order, as Taeyong * _ also _ * put it, hah). Did it kill a man to enjoy deals? No, Taeil concluded, it most certainly didn't. He enjoyed deals and he alived himself into his brand name, leather, red-soled dress shoes every evening before his commute. 

The cars were loud outside, leaving streaky noises behind them. Taeil stood by the automatic doors for some time but they kept sliding open and closed, so he paced out to the curb. There was a noodle house across the road and a woman in this huge parka stepped out with a tray, on it was a disposable polystyrene bowl that she was eating straight out of, even as she walked and it bumped upwards, into her face. Taeil scratched at the back of his neck. A cab or two passed by, but he remained out in the middle of the path. The street  was somewhere no one walked through, and thus he was alone when the woman with the parka stumbled away. 

A silver car pulled up at the side of the road and flashed its lights, practically blinding Taeil. He never particularly disliked the headlights of cars, other than how they ran down the battery on his old(and incredibly unreliable) Honda that he'd inherited off his older brother. He was starting to change his stance, after having to blink himself back into a fifth sense for a good few seconds while moving towards the car. It was one of those taxis that ran late at night, with the yellow plaques on the roofs that lit up slightly to attract future drunk drivers like moths. The driver gestured Taeil towards the passenger seat, but he opened the back doors and slipped in instead. He was awfully grainy looking under dark lighting, and even though it didn't affect the driver at all, and he didn't care about the driver anyway- it just made him nervous. He had makeup slapped all over his face and people could get very testy about it, for whatever reason. News anchors weren't exactly big name celebrities, thus Taeil had no reason to be wearing it that they could see. 

There was an air freshener dangling from the rear view mirror- pine shaped. 

"Where to?" asked the driver. His little ID photo was below the miles tracker machine, showing some plain faced guy with deep eyebags. It was still early, but Taeil had no doubt in his mind that this guy probably worked up til 3 a.m, hence the plaque. 

Taeil told him where, just as the door next to him was swung open. Both him and the driver turned. 

This man slumped down onto the leather seat only a space away from Taeil, heaving. He hadn't noticed anyone yet. Maybe he hadn't even noticed the driver, and was expecting god to transport him home. If Taeil had his nose chopped off, he could still tell that this guy was on the last legs of a night out- it was the way he pulled strings out of the holes in his jeans with clammy hands, slurring out what Taeil assumed was his house address to the driver. 

The driver's eyes flitted to Taeil's in the rear view mirror. They were bright and sickly and too young to fit his age. "What do we do?" he asked. 

Taeil shrugged. "Drop him off first I guess, then drop me." 

The driver nodded at the car hummed to life, the guy was holding his stomach now. 

"D'you have money?" Taeil tried to ask him, even turning a bit so it was obvious who he was speaking to. 

The guy unravelled some more of his jeans, and the knees of them were disappearing a bit so you could see a patch of skin, growing by the strand. "Probbly," he said, looking Taeil in the eyes. His skin was covered in sweat and he seemed almost ghostly. The next time he opened his mouth, it was running in Japanese. 

Well then. Taeil turned back to the seat in front of him and watched it, feeling strangely detached from the situation at hand. Taeyong had promised to cook tonight and the thought of it could empty stomachs. He wasn't even particularly good at it, but he was willing- that's what counted. His eagerness to impress had also infected the cleanliness of the household, which thrived and generally looked sterile as fuck. It was like having a personal house maid, who also brought a lot of girls home. But that was a story for another awkward ride home. 

Feeling very indifferent, Taeil waited for the cab to hurry along. Outside, the city was growing more rundown with each shutter of the window wipers. He hadn't even noticed it was raining until it was bucketing down, layering every surface that caged the three of them in. The lights trembled through the layer, fidgeting about like the sound waves on his music app he'd had installed on his laptop. 

He was only here through a small series of mishaps, mostly involving the expiry date that his brother had spoken off over the phone with him- him in the hushed hallways of the hometown's hospital, Taeil in South Korea using his girlfriend's phone. Taeil had been having a pleasant time drifting through life, lifting boxes into the back mouth of a supermarket for money, spending all of said money on appeasing his short term, possibly long term roommate. He'd tide this roommate- an aspiring architect who called himself Dongyoung- over by claiming he was working towards a stable income, will be able to pay half the rent soon, yadda yadda yadda. Taeil had a girlfriend back then called Jinsoul, who he could laugh along with and grope. It was a good arrangement, in that they both knew they were doomed but it was fine for the time it lasted. He'd been sitting across from some friend of his(who he could no longer name) and Jinsoul was sitting next to him, chattering away to the friend, trying to convince him to do something that Taeil couldn't remember. He was on the phone with his brother, who sounded thin in both voice and stature when he spoke through the mouthpiece. 

"Hurry up," Taeil had said when the phone was first picked up. "Overseas calling is expensive, you know."

His brother laughed and said "Taeil, I'm dying." 

"What... when?"

His brother sighed at his lack of empathy. "Three months, they give me," he said, "You'd better have a job by then."

Then he hung up. Taeil lowered the phone and leaned to drink without picking up his glass, the beer was warm. His friend was backpedalling about something. Taeil put a hand on Jinsoul's thigh, which was *very* much there considering her wardrobe choices that morning, and looked at her, and she laughed and tried to swat him away. 

"What is it?" she said, flicking her index finger at his hand until it moved down to her knee. "What is it?"

"Jinsoul... I think we should break up."

All this happened so he could become an F list celebrity, sharing a taxi home with this conspiratively Japanese guy who was dead set on ruining his jeans. And there was Taeyong, Taeil supposed. As much as people found Taeyong likeable, he'd never be the priority for anyone other than his one night stands and his nephew and, depressingly enough, Taeil. They didn't have a lot to offer each other, but it could be enough. Dinner tonight at 10 on their scrapyard loveseat. Taeyong would mill out later on with his coworkers and they'd go down to the bar, and maybe to the noraebang even though Taeyong wasn't old looking enough to fit in there, and he'd be assigned to cover the rap in Growl; his coworkers would tightly praise him afterwards. Taeil would boot up his laptop and go through his email to see if the local Craigslist-esque website was offering any new tvs. Their tv worked, but only doses- it could get right staticy when it was in the mood to annoy.

They reached the nice part of town with its blue light fixtures- it wasn't Christmas all that soon, but every shopping center in the vicinity had decked themselves out with dangling yellow lights just at the entrance. The rich people about were dead set on passing through late November and early February with as many decorations as possible, electric candy canes at the windows of apartment complexes, the penthouses would rise up and up and still you'd crane your neck and see their extravagant wreaths, there were bonsais left on the balconies with battery powered LEDs. Taeil wondered what business they had there- the Japanese guy hadn't given the best impression. He was currently rubbing his stomach, face pressed against the glass so his breath fogged it up. Then, rather violently, he shot forwards and vomited all over the back of the driver's seat. 

"Oh, holy shit," said Taeil, moving as far away as possible. The puke continued to shoot out of the guy, and it carried this rotten stench like blue bottles after having been burned against an electric fly killer- it didn't seem like it'd stop all that soon. At the rate it was going, the car'd be filled up with the watery liquid. 

"Fuck no," the driver groaned, almost getting hit by a truck while pulling in at the curb. His face was *purple*, deeply so. Taeil shoved his sleeve further up his nose and took a deep breath. "Get out of my fucking car," the driver said a little too loudly, he definitely meant it by the look on his face. 

"Y-your money-"

"Take that guy and get out *now*."

Well, Taeil did as he was told. Firstly he slipped out of his seat, upon closing the door the Japanese guy had stopped puking in favour of mumbling some more. Secondly, Taeil went to the other side of the cab and opened the door. The guy fell onto him, practically. His hands were covered in sick and they wiped all over Taeil's suit. 

He sighed and pulled the guy out, then nudged the door closed with his foot. The cab immediately went flying down the road. 

Now then. 

Taeil looked down at the hunched over figure that he held up by the armpits. The guy would've been taller than him if he wasn't withering, curving like a piece of paper, shins across the ground a small bit. He looked tired of being young- it was the way his bright eyes were framed with bags and faint veins down the bridge of his nose and acne scars. He had been staring at Taeil's forehead, but now his eyes were closed. Taeil was scared he'd snore, standing out there by a bin and a flickering street light. The people in the townhouse across the road were partying on a Tuesday(rich people), and one of the tenants opened a window and yelled over at Taeil- "HEY!! YOU SINGLE??". There was this girl blushing next to him, who pulled him back in through the frame of the window and closed it. 

Taeil laid the guy down on the path while he decided what to do. 

He'd been like that at some point, back before he met Jinsoul; he'd go out all night and rely on his wavy hands to flag down taxis, his fling to stick him in the seat and say his address- it was an on campus one, though he didn't attend college. Just while he worked in some tech university wiping down trays in the cafeterias after they'd been covered in egg sandwiches. A part of him felt guilty for how the guy's head was on the damp pavement, but only because he actually was at fault. He sighed and leaned down to talk. 

The guy turned his head- there was this earring lying on the flesh of his neck that was glowy and silver- then he puked.

"Shit," said Taeil, having done basic first aid in elementary school. Never leave a drunk person on their back, they'd said, it could make them choke. He flipped the guy over with the tip of his shoe, and the guy's phone fell out of his denim jacket. It was a flip phone; if you were planning to black out, you always brought a flip phone so you wouldn't get robbed while unconscious. Not that Taeil was out to loot or anything, but really, with the guy's state, wasn't he a bit entitled to? 

He crouched down as the guy continued to puke himself to consciousness. "Can you speak Korean?"

The guy coughed and reached a hand out; Taeil didn't know what he was looking for, so he gave him the phone. It was pushed back into his hands that were now covered in slime. "*Of course* I can speak Korean," he said, extremely convincingly. "Call someone to get me home."

Taeil called the first number, which belonged to Jaehyun, whoever that was. Jaehyun picked up and said, "hey man, I haven't seen you since Chungha's place! Where the fuck are you?"

Jaehyun sounded beyond drunk, and his voice was frayed at by the sounds of a game of beer pong in the background. "Your friend's passed out," Taeil said, which wasn't entirely true but it'd do for now. 

"Who, Yuta?" how many missing friends did this Jaehyun kid have, anyway. 

"Is that who the phone belongs to?"

"You know anyway," Jaehyun sniffed. "What are you, going through his texts? That's an invasion of privacy, man. You can't like, do that. I can assure you that Yuta's got a heart of gold and he'd never cheat on you, whoever you are."

Taeil took a deep breath and thought about dinner later. By his feet, Yuta had his nose pressed into the puddle of puke. His eyes met Taeil's and they were so tired, still hopeful that he'd make it home tonight. Jaehyun wasn't a very helpful person. They'd have to see. "While that's all very well and good, your friend Yuta's passed out on the sidewalk and he needs someone to come pick him up."

"If you couldn't tell," Jaehyun pulled away from the mouthpiece for a second to talk some girl. When he returned, he was marginally cheerier in his tone. "I'm drunk. No way am I driving."

Yuta snorted. "He doesn't even have a license," he told the cement beneath him. 

"Look, I'm not just gonna stand here babysitting your friend until he sobers up. Call someone who can bring him home," said Taeil. If Jaehyun was in front of him, he could never talk without a certain carefulness. It was crazy the kind of barriers phone calls had, and they were perfect to exploit. 

"Sorry man, no can do. None of us can drive."

Taeil looked down at Yuta, who looked miles more pathetic than before, somehow. "Is that true? Can none of you drive?"

"I can," said Yuta. Taeil laughed at his own misfortune, maybe teared up a bit. 

"Anyone else?"

"No, it's always been just me," he coughed and sat up; the right side of his face was caked with little dots of gravel. "I was meant to be the designated driver, but uh."

Taeil shrugged. "Can't be helped," he said, softening up a bit at Yuta's display of a working brain, and how pathetic it was. He was in such a state, the vomit on his clothes must've been freezing and oh boy was he red. "I'll just call a cab."

Yuta visibly cringed. "About that..." he scratched at his ear, very boyish. "I sort of lost all my money. I don't know how or where or why, but it happened."

The tv in the sitting room would have to wait an extra day before being summoned out to the electric appliances section at the dump, since this was eating up a bit of its budget now. "It's fine," said Taeil, "I'll cover it."

"Seriously?" Yuta was grinning then; it was surprisingly sharp. His teeth gleamed so white, even though he seemed to be the type to replace toothpaste with Airwave chewing gums, maybe the cherry flavoured ones or something. 

"Yeah, guess so. But I'm gonna use your phone for a second first."

The buttons were plasticy and tough to push, like pill packaging at the pharmacy(or other places that Taeil could've named at some point). He ended up calling Taeyong, who was dishing slices of pork out onto the frying pan with one hand and holding the phone with the other. Maybe it was crushed between his jaw and his shoulder, the way old housewives did over their patterned ironing board, twenty year old son's job interview shirt with outstretched sleeves. Taeil could hear the meat sizzling against the metal spatula as Taeyong turned it over

He told him that he'd be late home, and Taeyong sighed and opened the clasp on a plastic tupperware box. "Okay," he said, "I'll leave the cooked pork in the fridge. Cut it up before you microwave it. Make sure it's heated all the way through."

Taeil's exact thoughts on Taeyong were mostly a markdown that went as followed- * _ too nice, too hot, too good at being there _ *. He always was there, really. It was a wonder they hadn't married and opened a joint bank account, with a budget night once a month where they discussed the merits of moving to Busan to take up sailing. They'd leave sandy footprints across wooden floors, adjust throws on fabric sofas, pick seaweed out of each other’s hair. Taeil's monthly mailout would be scheduled earlier so it could get stuffed into his father's pillow on time. He never relied on the post office for large sums, but what other choice was there when his father wouldn't open a paypal? Well. 

But they weren't married, on account of the fact that they both found each other too hard to love. That was what happened when there were too many similarities between people. 

Taeil hadn't mourned this for too long, because it seemed as useless as attending stranger's funeral. It only made you sad, and not for the right reasons. He instead placed a lot of interest in drawing, which was a brick wall for sure- then there was all the times he'd practice 'radio voice' in front of the mirror, and his friends who'd laugh at him just like his reflection had. He liked polishing his shoes with reeking polisher, ironing every surface in the house, getting haircuts. It was enough of a life- at the end of the month he'd pack it all up into that mailout, double stamped, sealed with a lick of the tongue and a press. The glide as his fingers brushed over the cardstock flap. 

He hung up the phone and held it too long until it seared his fingers, then passed it to Yuta. His mouth was quirking diagonally with a continued detachment. "Right then," he said. 

Without thinking about it, they both turned to the road. Yuta was still sitting up on the pavement, he stank of booze and a spoiled fried chicken deal, too tired to even open his mouth. 

The road was busy by that point- it wasn't all that late, sometime around half ten as all the salarymen boarded their Toyotas on the way to the crumbling motels. Taeil didn't hesitate to wave his hands about, maybe yell a bit(more to ease his frustration than for any effect)- "For the love of * _ god _ *, could one of you pricks * _ pull in _ *?!"

He flagged one down after what felt like a conquest, and it pulled up just by the bricks lining the pavement. Yuta slumped forward, leaned on his knees, crouched, and finally stood up. He had a hand on Taeil's shoulder as if it was a walking stick, and Taeil supposed that he'd always known he was short anyway. 

The driver this time was more immune to barhoppers. He didn't flinch at the repulsive smell all over Yuta- Taeil still hadn't managed to turn his head away sometimes, so he'd catch a bit of it and feel his insides melt away. 

The driver's ID displayed a man with very tan skin, tight mouth, sharply handsome. When he dropped his jaw to speak, his cheeks were so hollow that they looked like great big discs on his face.

"Where to?" he asked. His accent was as Seoul as you could get em, probably from one of the areas that leached blood out of tourists on the regular- those places had sort of a pick up and be changed affair, where a lot of factors milled about that could detangle your life.  

They were quiet for the ride home. In their lane, dashes of motorbikes would go past with pizza boxes strapped in above the back wheel. Taeil would have reheated pork for dinner, he reminded himself eagerly. He could hear the radio even though it was turned down low, and the voice was tinged and vapid- singing about love over some well arranged synth. 

Yuta hadn't said a word. Taeil suspected that he might have dosed off. He wasn't going to turn his head to check, in any case. 

After a while of this limbo, the cab came to a short halt, and Yuta bashed his head off of the headrest in front of him. He groaned and held his nose, *motherfucker*, he muttered. They were in front of an apartment complex, as entirely expected. However, it was one of the higher end ones that had been foreshadowed back where Yuta had left a puke puddle. He was still rubbing at his nose, and Taeil sighed and thought that really, this wasn't far from his flat anyway. 

He leaned forward and handed the cab driver some bills that came straight from his wallet, and probably his tv fund. The notes were faintly green, musty- he rarely bothered with the cash machine. There was only one of them down by the supermarket and most of the time, Taeyong did the shopping anyway. Everything was an inconvenience in Seoul. The cabs, the smoke, the cramped street vendors that were swamped in grease; unhealthiness. 

The doors were well oiled and easy to fling open, so much so that Taeil perhaps did this a bit too harshly and it threatened to snap off its hinges. He cringed at himself and stepped out into the night, which was largely occupied by silence and a sense of exclusivity. Only those who waited got their turn, only those who flourished in UVs could carry their secrets in heels and fetishes and a hand on someone's stomach, right above their guts. It wasn't as exciting or glamorous as it seemed when you saw it through other people's curtains. Most of the time, living a life of constant events- some slow and boiling, some quick and rough- was what turned people to settle down. Taeil had slept on so many sofas with questionable stuff coating his arms, his lips, that it didn't matter where he was anymore, in this constant state of dissatisfaction. He might as well've flattened out his reputation while being bored. If given the choice, he'd probably have avoided it altogether. Then again, maybe not. 

He wasn't sad or anything. Life was fine to pass the time with. That wasn't the problem, if the problem even existed. 

Yuta pulled at the door handle and pushed it outwards, and when he stumbled out Taeil was there beside him. He said, "I live up there," and didn't point. The driver pulled away, the exhaust pipe had leaked a small dribble of oil onto the road, making dark cement even darker. 

"Well, I'd hope you hadn't lead me astray again," Taeil said and smiled at him, just because he looked so pitiful yet again. Yuta's complexion had gone pale like he'd rubbed flour into his pores, and his eyes were pinking, more from the sickness than the alcohol, which seemed to be forcing itself up through his throat- mostly out of his system. 

It wasn't even that late out. 

"Last time was a *mistake*," said Yuta, hobbling over to the complex's entrance doors. They were glass; text was printed on either slab, but Taeil wasn't bothered to read it. He'd always been freaked out by those stories of going blind from reading in the dark, anyway. His father was a fearmonger. Turned out that worrying didn't help a person, maybe at all. Taeil still got around the place after living without a trouble for years of his life. He'd blown his yearly allowance on some trip to Los Angeles with three girls he'd known from somewhere, and two other guys that had taken him in like a gift from god. Los Angeles was dunked in lights, lights, lights, and towering buildings that left the biggest shadows. Taeil had spent all his actual budget in one night, buying plate after plate of steak, buying a scorpion jacket off some woman at an 80s themed vendor- all the girls had agreed that it looked * _ very _ * good on him. Money was tightly discussed and easily spent. Taeil loved the way its weight wasn't rooted in its physical attributes. He cherished the way it seethed in the pocket of his scorpion jacket when he got home, walking out of the cafeteria through flocks of actual students, having cleaned numerous stainless steel pans. 

"Do you want me to walk you to the door?" he asked after Yuta, who had paused to take a nap against the glass.

He blinked. "What?"

Taeil repeated himself, less enthusiastically. He didn't especially want to go up the stairs anyway, and there was no elevator to be seen. Then again, maybe Yuta'd collapse on the venture up. That'd be decidedly bad. 

"Oh, don't bother," Yuta said blearily. "By the way, thank you for earlier. Seriously, man. I thought I was gonna die."

Taeil laughed, still watching. "It's fine," he said, "no biggie."

"Um, yes biggie," Yuta's eyes nearly bulged out. He pulled at his kneecap, pinching the skin between two fingers. 

"Right. Well, you're welcome then."

Yuta nodded. Taeil looked as he walked away and began walking up the stairs, first his roots disappeared out of sight, then his head, then his chest, then his legs, and finally, his shoes. At the end of it all, he was a memory. 

Taeil walked home. 

  
  
  
  
  


The sun was pink against the sky and it shone through the plastic bag dangling from Taeil's fingers. His shoes were pointed away from each other, they were laced up neatly even though they were offbrand sneakers. Dongyoung wore reeboks and jeans with a brown tag stitched into the beltline and a frown. 

"What're you doing here?" he asked, and his face was as painful as always. Most of this was on account of how overly excited it looked, how exaggerated, despite the fact that he was wading through life like he'd been submerged just above his waist. He had a car, Taeil knew- there were keys in his right hand and they etched his palm red. 

Taeil knew better than to take offense. He thought becoming a dead horse seemed about right from all their time in that shared apartment; the thin walls and takeout containers stacked up by the sink, you'd be getting dressed in the morning and would find noodles at the seams of your socks. Everything was noodles, all the time. They had been up to their necks in it, faces greasy and melting from the steam if the delivery guy arrived on time, snaking over their knuckles and through their ears, fattening them up. Taeil had never had a more unhealthy period in his life, as when Dongyoung would sit on their tan couch every night to dial up the delivery place- he'd flick at loose change on their coffee table with his legs over the armrest. Extra fortune cookies, he'd ask for, but only if they were free. He never believed in the predictions but they were, by design, too general not to have faith in. Taeil would switch containers with him and stab at the duck with metal chopsticks, ripping the fat away from the flesh through his teeth. 

It had been alright for him, at least. It wasn't mutual. He'd known all these years. "I live here," he said. What kind of question was that, huh? Many people had chosen to believe that Taeil's life was short lived and carried out over the course of his slacker years. When these ended, he'd been shoved into his coffin, socks slipped over his feet, timeless and embroidered with the Lacoste alligator just at the cuffs of them. The coffin was burned through neglect. Most of the people he'd known were dead in the grand scheme of things, too. Taeyong was currently the only person who tied him down to Earth like an anchor- otherwise he'd float off into the air- oh my * _ god _ *, Jinsoul! I just saw your ex * _ flying _ * yesterday!! What ex? Jinsoul would say- what ex? Then she'd snap her wooden chopsticks and turn to whoever she'd married, there's only ever been you, she'd say. Because a part of her had been unwritten. They were all being written out of history. Edited out, maybe. 

And here was Dongyoung. They were never fated to meet- this was a mistake. He sighed and pulled his collar over his mouth to cover how red it was. Winter was thriving this year more than any other; Taeil had been sitting in his chair as the weather girl told of a snow warning, just last week. "Oh," said Dongyoung, "me too." 

Taeil wanted to look away from him. "Let's get coffee. I know a place nearby," he said. He didn't really, but it was inevitable that they'd find one looming on the distance, existing solely as a place for their conversation to be held. Some circumstances could lead you to believe that everything fitted around them. 

He'd been buying a box of condoms at the pharmacy down the road, after having a weird loneliness crisis last night, and in the plastic bag the box was covered by his coat out of embarrassment- he was *freezing*, and really, who'd expected the white bag to be as transparent as it was? 

Dipping out of the way of sticky clumps of leaves on the path, he'd stepped in front of a car, that lurched hard to avoid hitting him. Dongyoung was tying his laces about two paces ahead of him- Taeil had recognised the asymmetrical cut of his back immediately, and he'd stood in front of the car until it beeped impatiently, before walking over. It went uphill from there, you could say. Meeting an old friend; what were the chances?

Dongyoung was substantially slimmer, and he had a turtleneck on instead of a coat. This seemed to be a good enough synopsis of what he'd been up to during those four years of whiteout between here and then. He agreed to go to the coffee shop so they went; the streets were busy with commuters wearing socks filled with travel money and snack bars. Taeil swerved to avoid this one guy, who seemed insistent on power walking to what looked to be a job at the flower shop, considering the bouquet and green dress shirt. Dongyoung had caught his arm before he tripped away and onto the road, and then he pulled his hand away like Taeil's skin was flammable- and in flame. They used to hardcore cuddle on the couch, even when Jinsoul was in the next room fixing her makeup; she never cared. Her skin was always tanned gold and she loved hugging her friends, so she automatically hadn't given a fuck what her conventionally attractive boyfriend did, not in the slightest. 

It was kind of funny how skittish Dongyoung was acting now. Taeil would've laughed, but his job as an attractive servant living off government funding had straightened him out to this figure of mildness. If you've ever looked into the soulless face of a Vogue model and imagined them talking, that was the basic gist of how Taeil went on nowadays. Lukewarm tea, mashed potato. He said to Dongyoung, "hey, thanks," after being saved from cracking his neck off the curb. 

A cafe happened upon them. Taeil held the door open as Dongyoung stepped in. Looking at him now, he was noticeably taller. The height difference had been funny a while ago, since Taeil was a laugh-be-happy, and Dongyoung was a pussy. Now it was still... funny. Really, it made it harder for the girls at the tables to pick favourites. There were a few of them about, some with company but others picking fluff off their tights, lips resting on the brim of a coffee mug, steam opening their pores intentionally. 

The girl at the counter picked Dongyoung and carried through with it, twisting her torso to and fro just slightly as she took his order, arms hidden behind her back as if she was wearing handcuffs. 

"Espresso," he stuttered out, overthinking it. On a worse morning, Taeil would take the fact that he'd ordered the smallest drink on the menu as an offense. A milliliter was a split second in drinking times, but only if you didn't pause. Dongyoung wouldn't. 

Taeil was looking forward to seeing him burn his mouth. 

The girl had coppery hair, newly done, and she reached up and pinned it out of the way of her eyes. They were exceptionally average, pink around the rims. Maybe she'd stare and turn Dongyoung to stone, then carry him home and use him to hang her clothes off. Taeil had been in dorms before, none of them his own, but that was a given- many of the girls' ones had chairs propped up beneath light switches, bras lying out to dry. When they were lacy and black, the friend he wingmanned for- some skateboarder who was possibly called Jihun- would go slackjawed and hard. 

Dongyoung could be that chair. Or that wingman; Taeil had no idea about him anymore, as a sexual being. 

But he wouldn't look at her. He stared into the glass display case for so long, at the greying cubes of cheesecake and gloopy chocolate mousse, that the girl asked if he wanted dessert. 

"The carrot cake's very nice," she said sweetly. The lie would've passed any granny by, that was how swift it came out. "Would you like a slice?"

Dongyoung sputtered. Taeil cut in, then. "What I'd like," he said, stepping closer to Dongyoung, "is to order, please."

Her eyes shuttered. "Oh, uh, right," she said. "What can I get you, then?"

He looked at the menu. Most of the drinks were fall related, rather than offering a pump of gingerbread they'd listed it as a whole new item. That was exactly why he believed that cafes shouldn't get to use blackboards for menu signs- it was too much freedom and room for error. Right now, the words were merging together and often smudged, like they let someone left handed fill it in. He laughed uneasily- "do you have filter coffee?"

They had filter coffee. They also had comfortable chairs. Taeil was satisfied, one hand sort of holding his aluminium pot, and he'd have to pull it away between pauses so his skin wouldn't scald off. His mug wasn't tall and glass like Dongyoung's, but the ceramic felt smooth to touch and the handle was sturdy. 

He kicked one leg over the other, foot brushing off Dongyoung's shin in the process. 

"How's life been?"

Dongyoung acted like it was a trick question, licking the sugar off his courtesy gingerbread biscuit. "Fine," he said. "I got a job at a printing company."

Though not exciting, it suited him, Taeil thought, or maybe that was why it suited him anyway. "That's good to hear," he said, somewhat sincerely. The condescension of good words was quick and hard to stop. 

Dongyoung didn't deter. If he got any more standoffish, he'd have three legs. "The pay is... fine," he cocked his head while he searched for the 'fine', which probably wasn't the one he was going for anyway. His hair was now grown out black again, and it fell across his forehead rather messily. Taeil wanted to bring him to the barbers, just so he could experience the whirring of electric razors from even the waiting area. There was something so weird about it- how a bad intention could cause the scrambling of skin and blood and goop. 

"I'm a news anchor now," said Taeil. 

"I saw," said Dongyoung. That must've been weird. He'd seen Taeil's done up face, then, his pressed blazers and casual button ups and whatever the stylists found poking about in the cupboards, eager to experiment while still maintaining their jobs. They'd figured out in August, that you could add a suitable tie to any outfit and it'd sail past the director's vision like dust in the air. Taeil wasn't particularly fond of this epiphany, but he couldn't call himself annoyed, either. 

"Guess I'm more famous than I thought," Taeil said with a smile. His coffee was cool enough to drink, and he finished it all to pour some more up. Less time to cool, then. 

Dongyoung shrugged and licked some flavour off his lips.

They didn't talk for their short lived visit in eachother's lives; couldn't talk. Dongyoung was an alien beamed down from a distant planet where Taeil was happier and more involved, and he spoke sparingly, homesick. They waited until the sky sweated itself into plainness before shoving their chairs in to go. By the door, the umbrella stand was filled to the brim, the steel points of each one like needles. 

Dongyoung said, "here," when they were just outside. The rain was discarding itself down gutters by that point; they'd been splashed by a car, Taeil's jeans were ruined. 

Here, what? he wondered. Then Dongyoung passed him a slip of yellow paper, hastily written on against the bathroom mirror, because what other time would there be? He'd excused himself once during their meeting, and then returned far too quickly. 

Or, he was a clairvoyant. The paper just contained an address and a time and a signature. Kim Dongyoung, was his name, Taeil had forgotten the 'Kim' part, but figured that he'd guess it anyway, if asked twice and corrected once. 

Dongyoung had bolted away right after Taeil unfolded the paper. Just like that, he was gone, and Taeil was left to pick up the pieces. He wrung his t shirt between his hands and regretted the misuse of his coat, which was still folded; the condoms stuffed between either cut of its fabric. He swung the plastic bag as he walked home, paper in one hand.

There was no obvious action to perform. It was up to him, now. 

  
  
  
  
  


Dongyoung had transferred his whole life to the new apartment, where it stayed compacted. It wasn't hard- there had never been much to begin with, before he turned seventeen. He had multiple old telephones in a box by the tv, every single one with the wire twisted around the plastic dialer, pinks and yellows and pale greens like soap. The wall over the sink was red, but it was the only one. 

There were cube shaped boxes by the sink, all empty and plain smelling- those were the noodle containers from the takeout palace that wasn't nearest, but nicest. 

Dongyoung kept moaning sharply when he was on top. His bedroom was a mattress on the floor by a CD rack. He listened to RnB now, Taeil and his's old disco vinyl collection sold off at the going away yard sale. Taeil had taken them down the alleyway in the early morning, lawn chair in one hand. He'd dragged a table in front of one of those supermarkets he'd worked for and sat all day, sweltering in late July. At least, he had thought, his brother had told him in the summer, so he could sit outside in restaurants to feel the sun before he left. He'd sold the lot and taken the money for his job seeking suit. 

Dongyoung was looking at him intentionally. His breathing was very harsh just before he came. Well, there it was. 

Taeil pulled out and lied there with the condom on his dick, feeling Dongyoung collapse onto him. 

It had happened once before. Only once. Dongyoung had cried the whole time, eyes glossy and pink with each thrust, letting out hisses of pain. He claimed he was too sore to move for the rest of the week, would sit in bed all day and generally be where Taeil wasn't.

Taeil took a deep breath, felt how sweaty his skin was now and how it clung to the sheets. "You're different," he said.

"I'm practiced," said Dongyoung, pulling Taeil's condom off gently and throwing it in the plastic bin by the wall. His legs were long and stretched out, mild muscles so his flesh didn't hang off the bone so much as it stuck. His knees were pink and he kept a hand constantly rubbing them; they looked like they'd been peeled at. 

The thought of Dongyoung doing it with guys was weird- even if Taeil had been watching the sex from any other angle, it'd be weird to see Dongyoung feeling any sort of pleasure at all. And he *had* too, that much was obvious- he flushed all over and sighed constantly. It was great when it was happening, for Taeil. He'd hadn't felt as good as Dongyoung, and the thought made him sad. What else was there to do? What else was guaranteed to pick you up, like good sex? 

And even that hadn't worked, try as he might. 

So he lied there for some time, arms around Dongyoung awkwardly. Maybe it was just him who felt the air struggle and die. "I'm sorry," he said after awhile, "I just need to- to clear this up... This is a one time thing, right?"

Dongyoung sighed and opened his eyes. They'd done it with the lights off, and now the light escaping from the top of the curtains had made the ceiling a dark blue. Occasionally cars would go by and there'd be blocks of orange cast across its surface, engine noises clamping. "It doesn't have to be," said Dongyoung. That was all. 

Taeil felt the cartilage in his throat cramp, and it was hard to speak. "What do you mean?"

"It's- I. Don't you feel it?" Dongyoung asked, painful and quiet. He'd turned in Taeil's hands then, face inches away from the pillow. His shoulder blades jutted out from under his skin weirdly as he propped himself up by the elbows just by Taeil's head. 

Taeil was looking up, feeling pinned even though Dongyoung wasn't watching him at all. His mouth failed to move, but when it did he said, limply, "but you were my best friend."

"I was, yeah," Dongyoung said, "a long time ago."

Taeil didn't respond. 

"I'm changed now," said Dongyoung. "If you didn't like me before."

The problem was that even doing things to Dongyoung felt bad, like Taeil was messing with something that should've been left in the dark. They weren't fated to meet. Maybe they were fated *not* to in the first place, they'd been separated successfully thus far, and then something fucked up and they slept together. 

This was a mistake. 

He shouldn't have allowed it. He was an impostor, then, stealing the face of the old Taeil, presenting himself as if he was years younger, with a heart of lard and grease- he didn't belong anywhere near Dongyoung. They didn't even know each other. This guy was a stranger to him, now. 

Dongyoung looked at him for some time before he realised there wouldn't be a response, then he turned away and said "you need to get over yourself. You're living in the past."

Taeil closed his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said, trying not to cry. His eyes were painful and wobbly, swimming about in their sockets. He was scared there'd be blood if he rubbed them. The sheets were too warm around his body. 

When he was sure that Dongyoung was asleep, he put his underwear and suit back on- he'd come to the address on the paper straight after work, and his suit was left folded by the mattress on his insistence. The crumples were straight and square, as if someone had cut through Taeil with a scalpel. 

He had never felt worse in his life as he did while walking through the sitting room. It was dark but there was also a distinct lack of furniture, so he didn't worry about swerving out of the way of things. The tv was left on a talk show, subtitles on but silent. The colours from it washed over the floorboards in such a subdued way that it was sort of depressing. 

The latch closed softly. 

Taeil breathed, maybe panted a little, then got the elevator down and tossed the scrap of yellow paper in the lobby's bin. If only he could forget the location of the apartment block, too. 

He knew he wouldn't, even years down the line. It was his worst moment. No one forgot the bad things that happened to them. 

  
  
  
  


He got the call sometime after passing the usual pharmacy, and the streets were empty enough to take it. 

It was an unknown number. Taeil prepared his sentence- "no, sorry, I don't have any money to spare for Nigerian princes" or "I actually don't do drugs" or something like that. Maybe; hey dad, who gave you the phone again? But that was only if he was really unlucky. 

The nurses too would call, speaking on behalf of his father when his speech got mangled. They'd tell him they received his cheque recently but the money didn't transfer right, could you redo it, please? And Taeil would sigh and write a little post it from Taeyong's desk, stick it right there on the computer screen. The bank wasn't far because nothing in Seoul was far, but it had polished cement tiles as far as the eye could see and stretched out barriers. Taeil would wait in line until all his blood culminated into his feet and they burst the seams of his shoes. He hated the mothers opening college fund accounts, bringing their children in buggies and complaining that they had no baby changing areas in the actual line. He hated the businessmen who'd dress down in slacks and polos. He hated the machine clerks who were either mute or always chatting away to each other, and they'd never notice if the ATMs were spitting errors as often as the businessmen spat profanities about some 'workarounds' the banks were using to take even *more* of their money. 

It was all stupid. Sometimes, Taeil would get Taeyong to go with him when his cheques didn't read, and they'd go for ice cream afterwards. There was a chain place that served your ice cream with plastic kids toys, and Taeyong would slump in the seat with his long legs stretched out before him, trying to undo the screws on the feet with his thumb nail. 

The earpiece of the phone crackled with connection problems. "Hey," said a voice that Taeil wouldn't have recognised at all, if it wasn't for the Japanese accent. He frowned. 

"How'd you get my number?"

He'd paused then, just before the entrance to the complex's lobby. If he stayed here he wouldn't wake anyone up, except for the beggars that meandered about- but he was really on his own this time. A car would go by the odd time, mostly taxis without passengers. There was an opticians directly across the road with a huge sign. On it were two eyes sitting behind a pair of thick frames, they were bright blue even though foreigners weren't exactly in the market for eye tests, and the picture stared holes through Taeil as he stared back. 

"Taeyong gave it to me," said the guy. What  _ was _ his name? Yuto? No- it was Yuta; Taeil recalled the conversation with Jaehyun.  "His contact was in my call history, so I rang him up and asked for you. He said you weren't home. And so late?"

Goddamnit, Taeyong. "Yeah- about that. Do you have any idea what time it is?" Taeil said, when he moved his leg it felt stiff from standing straight for so long. He took a seat at the curb, getting earlier's rain all over his dresspants. 

"I just woke up," Yuta said, "and I clearly didn't interrupt your sleep or anything."

"What about Taeyong?"

Yuta laughed a bit, and it was heaped in reverb through the phone. "He was drunk," he said. 

Taeil opened his mouth to say something, but forgot what it was. "Ah," he settled with.    
"You don't sound surprised?"   
"I'm not," after all, Taeyong did tend to go out with his work buddies so he could prove to them all that his workmanship lived up to his face. They'd never believe him otherwise, he'd say. When you pay for the beer, that'd just be paid back in your pockets through promotions. When you pay for other people's beer, that'd be extra money through raises. If you couldn't carry a tune in noraebang they'd like you more. People were funny- they loved faults as much as they loved the positives of a person. If you had a load of them, the gap was too wide, but when it was just a crooked tooth or too many freckles they'd relish in how they were just slightly above you. Keep the people you like at your feet, Taeyong would say. Let them see themselves in you.    
For Taeil, it went in one ear and out the other. His co workers were busy enough without all that extra, human condition bullshit. He showed up, talked about collapsed buildings and endangered animals, then left promptly. Most of the time, the makeup would come off in front of his own bathroom mirror. Unlike Taeyong, his work was dreaded but not feared.    
That was what you got at one of those cut throat firms- all reputation, all the time.    
Yuta was laughing down the line again.    
"Why  _ did _ you call me, anyway?" Taeil asked, eyes drooping.    
"To say thanks," said Yuta, "for last night."   
"Don't say it like that- it sounds accusatory," Taeil said with a smile. It was out of pity again, but Yuta couldn't even see it so.    
Yuta laughed a third time. "I'll keep that in mind."   
There was a pause. A car stopped down the road, and some woman with a bubble jacket stepped out. She waved her hands to get the driver to unlock the boot, then opened it and pulled a wheelie suitcase out. Her sunglasses looked odd in the dark- like two black eyes. Taeil wasn't sure if she even existed, really. She seemed the type to be a ghost or a vampire.    
"Did you save my number?" Taeil asked, after a while.    
"Yeah," said Yuta. "Is that a problem?"   
Taeil thought about it. "No, it's- it's fine."   
"Really? You don't sound all that sure."   
"I'm sure," Taeil told him. Then he thought some more. "-Wait, what did you save it as? I never gave you my name."   
"Taeyong told me."   
Oh, right. "I guess you have his number too then."   
"No, actually," Yuta said, amused. "Just yours."

"Well," Taeil shifted slightly on the pavement- he swore he felt a drop of rain land on his scalp. "If that’s all. Good night then."

"Night, Taeil," you could hear him smiling; it was a bit disgusting. And then the line went dead. 

Taeil sat there for a second, trying to figure out if it was actually about to rain or not. Then the sky sensed this and started lashing down, so he got up and hopped inside. The receptionist was asleep even though they hadn't left the heat on in the halls, and his face was going white against the desk. 

Taeyong wasn't in when Taeil finally got home. He could've been inside the entire time, then. 

With a very drawn out sigh, he saved Yuta's number. It was full of 3s. 

  
  
  
  
  


It was late December when they started dating. 

The thing to note was the lack of gifts- they had nothing for each other. Yuta was an immigrant and an independent game dev, he overfed his white cat, got dripfed money from his upper class parents who lived in designer suitcases in Osaka. He had a Dell and a box full of old games on floppy discs that he'd made in high school, and sometimes Taeil would fish one out, slip it into his pocket to play later. They were always simple. Reskinned sudoku, stupidly violent games with MS Paint graphics, Bejeweled made sexy. Sometimes they were good for a laugh, and Yuta never knew they'd disappear. 

Taeil was a news anchor with one suit, who held tightly sealed history with Dongyoung, Jinsoul, and a small circle of college girls. He mailed a hospital cheque after cheque, until he didn't have to anymore. The last envelope went out in February- he'd posted it early morning, then headed over to Yuta's place for some sex and food. Yuta had been working through a recent project on his Dell, and then he saved the files and payed attention to Taeil's whining. Finally. 

The nurse had called that day to inform Taeil that his father passed away in his sleep. His brain was all rotten by that point, on account of the Alzheimer's. Taeil had known that it was only a matter of time anyway. 

He didn't need a job then. He didn't need the money. The plan was to let Yuta down easy. 

Taeil's heart had been aching for too long, he'd been aching for it. 

His past. 

 

The day he returned, he lined his pockets with cab fare. It'd be a long journey, one that he'd left his phone in the flat for. Yuta had been silent for a long time, trying to prove himself as not pathetic, and then he'd left some sobby messages on the voicemail. 

Taeil felt bad for letting Yuta think that they were ever something. If you were fated to avoid each other, that was it then. His sabbatical was over and he was going back to where he belonged.

 

His friend was in the flat when he pulled up- it was as run down as he remembered, paint chipping off the building like dandruff. There were kids holding a plastic sled just outside the lobby doors; it was bright red, and it battered about in the wind. Their faces were splotchy with cold, hoping the snow would stick. 

Taeil swerved past them. In the lobby, it smelled like mold was dropped under the radiators, small, binded parcels of it. 

The direction was practically muscle memory- Taeil arrived as quickly as he left. 

His friend had his back turned away from the door, leaning out the window with a cigarette in his mouth. He'd been the one who witnessed the break up with Jinsoul. He'd learn of another, soon. Maybe two. Taeil didn't think he'd ever talk about the incident with Dongyoung again. It was hard to believe it even happened, in hindsight. 

Nothing happened. The past four years were the whole sabbatical. That was all there was to it. 

"Hey," Taeil said, and his friend turned to look at him. 

"You still have the spare key?" he flicked some ash off onto the street below. 

Taeil smiled and walked over. It was sunny out, but harsh with cold. The draft was crazy. "Mind if I stay a while?"

His friend shook his head. "Yeah," he said then, laughing. "Course."

And that was how Taeil got written out of history, just as the rest had. 

 

Yet, until Dongyoung and Yuta and Taeyong died, he'd still be anchored by word and memory. His coffin only had enough space for one- it was already occupied.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This needs a rework of sorts, as I gave up after the Dongyoung part when I was writing this(something came up) so apologies for this godawful ending!! Hope you all like it anway, :))) luv


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